


Until We Get There

by seducing_a_vampire



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Date Night, Flying, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, They're In Love Your Honor, but also anxiety and trauma still exist, they out here communicating folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29425455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducing_a_vampire/pseuds/seducing_a_vampire
Summary: Simon and Baz are learning to connect again, but they’re both feeling nervous about the prospect of their first real date since they got back from that tumultuous trip to America a few months ago.An ill-placed puddle, a dozen roses, some steaming Thai food, and a flight toward a starry sky later, and maybe they’re doing better than they thought, after all.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 65
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	Until We Get There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viktorkrumn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viktorkrumn/gifts).



> for my sweetheart, viktorkrumn!!! 💖 Happy Valentine's Day!
> 
> title taken from [the song by Lucius](https://open.spotify.com/track/0p402scjAt8DrBGcbxPJHg?si=ljnQf6E5TMCkVDkFEid7xg)

**BAZ**

It’s always been hard to look at Simon Snow. 

For many years, the idea of looking at him was like an agonizing, perverse kind of magnetic pull. I never let myself do it unless he was asleep. I’d lay in bed, stomach sloshing with rat blood, and stare at his golden curls and wide open mouth. I hated myself for dwelling on something so impossible, something that I knew I would never have.

And then for a while, I _did_ have it. When I gazed at him, it was to marvel at my absurd good fortune, this bright force of nature choosing to be with me. And the way he looked at me, like I was something special too, it was unfathomable. 

Then, slowly, it changed. Staring at Simon meant seeing a broken form sprawled out on the sofa. Seeing him hate the sight of me. It felt familiar, but it hurt more than anything else had before.

Lately, though, it’s been different again. _Good_ different. 

Tonight, we’re going on our first real date since we got back from America. Simon was the one who brought it up a few weeks ago. I’ve been so afraid of pushing him, but he keeps surprising me and taking the first step. (Not that I should be surprised, really. After all, he was the one who decided a self-destructive fire in the middle of the woods was the prime time to make a move.)

It’s been getting a lot better, the two of us. We’re connecting again. Connecting for the first time like this, really. He’s going back to therapy, and he’s really trying this time. With us, and with everything else. And of course I have my own shit to sort through. We’re both working at seeing each other as we are, and at seeing ourselves truly, too. Rather than whatever fantasies or delusions we build up in our own heads.

When he brought up a date night, his smile seemed genuine, even though I could tell he was a bit nervous. 

It’s taken a while to find a time that works for us. Simon’s been working a ton at Tesco on top of part time uni. And I have my classes and a rather intense research job this term. Finally, we scheduled this day, and I said I would find a restaurant and make a reservation. Some Italian place that Dev recommended.

Now I’m standing in front of my mirror, adjusting my silk tie, getting ready to take my boyfriend on a date. It all seems so utterly normal, and I can’t help worrying that something’s going to go wrong. That we won’t have anything to talk about or something. That this rhythm we’ve found lately will suddenly give way to discordance.

I think it’s been going well— but has it? What if things are different when we are together, alone. No Bunce around to cut the tension. No homework to distract us. Just Simon and me, alone, staring at each other.

I hear Simon walk through the door and I feel the smile spring to my face, along with a fresh bundle of nerves. 

“Hey,” I hear him call. “Baz?” 

“In here, love,” I say automatically. The pet names come more easily now. From me. He still doesn’t call me _darling_. But sometimes the way he says my name feels so soaked in love that it’s the same thing, really.

Simon’s broad frame steps into our bedroom, and I look over to see his smile. And there it is— the same smile that’s been hard to look at for the last near-decade, that smacks me off my feet from the pure energy it radiates. He doesn’t need magic to do that. He _is_ magic, all on his own. Always has been.

“Hi,” he says. A man of many words, my boyfriend is not. But he’s smiling still, and he looks excited, even if some of his own hesitation is hiding under his cheerful countenance too. “So. What should I wear?” 

I could be annoyed now. I mean, we’ve had this date planned for two weeks, and he could have asked about this at any point along the way. I had my own favorite suit dry cleaned yesterday in preparation for this date. 

But I know Simon. So, I’ve been ready for this. 

“Your gray suit is in the closet.” 

His eyes widen. “A _suit_? 

This morning, he was half asleep in bed while I was telling him what time to come home and that I had his suit here. (He slept over last night. He and Bunce still live together, which I think has been good for us still, for now. He gets to choose to stay, on his terms. And lately, he’s been choosing that a lot.) 

I was up early for class, and he had taken the late shift last night so he could take off work this evening. It’s understandable that he didn’t remember. He’s had a lot going on this week. And the important thing is that he’s here now. 

“Okay,” he says. He walks closer to me now and rests his forehead on my shoulder. I lean into him, loving the feeling of him, solid and whole, pushing into me. He reaches up and lightly touches the tips of my hair, threading his fingers through the strands. “You look great, Baz. You … you always look great.” 

And with that surprising admission, he heads into the bathroom to shower.

Twenty minutes later, we’re stepping out of the flat together. 

It’s raining out, but Simon remembered to bring the umbrella. He holds it up over both of us, solicitously guiding me around and over the most treacherous puddles. 

I’m just wondering if I can hold his hand— if he would pull away from me, or do the thing where he squeezes once so he doesn’t hurt my feelings and then lets go— when he reaches out and grabs my hand. He laces our fingers together and squeezes tightly, and then keeps holding on. I run my thumb lightly against the back of his hand. And he still doesn’t pull away.

The restaurant is only a short walk away, and we cross the first few streets in silence. The city is awash in that fuzzy sort of glow that only comes from an evening rain, the lamplights and neon signs reflecting in the water drops and puddles. After a few offhand comments about the weather (Simon hates the rain— I always think it’s because he’s got too much sunshine in him), I finally ask him about his day at work. 

He responds, “Fine,” followed by an extended pause, during which I worry myself a bit over our conversational prospects and his mood and everything else there is to worry about. 

But I push him with a few other leading questions, and soon he’s telling me a story about his coworker who got in trouble for yelling at a particularly obnoxious customer today (“but like, in a funny way!”), and the memory makes him laugh, and I’m smiling to think of him sharing this story with me and also at him having these memories in the first place.

After a bit, he asks me about my day as well, and I regale him with talks of my linguistics professor’s most fascinating lecture.

“That’s great, Baz. I’m so glad you have a class that you like so much. You’ve always been really good at words and stuff like that, and it’s cool that you can keep studying it.” He sounds very serious all of a sudden, and I’m taken aback. 

My instinct is to respond with some sarcastic comment, but there’s a sincerity in his own eyes that makes me want to respond in kind. 

“Thanks, Simon,” I say, giving his hand another light squeeze. He grins at me briefly, and I feel some of the tension in my stomach start to release.

Just then, I realize that the rain has stopped its rhythmic drumming on our umbrella. We slow our pace at the same time, and Simon tilts the umbrella sideways, exposing our heads, but we remain dry.

Simon lets out a “Whoop!” and jogs ahead a bit. I laugh at his exuberance— just as he lands right into a giant puddle. There’s a comically loud _splash_ , and I watch as water vaults up and around him, soaking his feet and ankles and halfway up his calves. 

He turns to look at me, eyes wide, with his mouth twisted in the most ridiculous grimace.

“Really, Snow, I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I meant it as a joke, but I can see he takes it to heart. We’ve always been shit at communicating our feelings. Insults, yes— feelings, never. 

A slight pause while I think about what to say to fix this (I am getting better, after all), then Simon clears his throat and asks, “So, do you reckon they will dry before we sit down at the restaurant?” 

His eyes are searching me anxiously, and I can tell it’s not really about the puddle— all his nerves about this evening have been pushed out now, raw and exposed. What a pair the two of us make, each driven mad by the thought of a simple date. Honestly. 

I sigh and then quickly look sideways at Simon as a thought strikes me that might do more than just fix my comment. 

“Snow,” I say. “What do you think about getting out of London for a bit?”

He blinks. “But— right now? What about our dinner reservation? And your fancy suit? And just— what?”

“Hang the dinner reservation. The night’s clearing up now. Let’s get takeaway and go find some stars.” 

I’m rewarded for this idea by one of Simon’s most dazzling smiles, and I squeeze his hand again, feeling excited. 

We call ahead at the Thai place next to my flat, and twenty minutes later we are walking out with one Pad Thai, one green curry, and a mess of cutlery and napkins. 

“I’ll go up and grab the car keys, and you should change,” I say, glancing down at Simon’s drenched trouser hems. My eyes drag up my boyfriend’s frame, savoring one last glimpse of him in this suit. 

I feel my eyes soften as I stare, thinking of the first time I saw him in a gray suit. His incomprensibile bull-headedness (bravery), showing up at my doorstep unasked for the second time. His terrible table manners. His blue eyes flashing from across my parent’s dining table, grinning at me good-naturedly perhaps for the first time.

Present day Simon smirks.

“Alright, but you’ve gotta go put on your old football jersey.” 

“ _What?”_

“Yep. Old time’s sake. Let’s go.” 

I feel utterly ridiculous and also a bit giddy, but I do as he says. Simon changes so quickly it’s like he’s magicked himself into new clothes, and I’m fixing my hair in the bathroom when I hear him call, “Gonna wait outside! Need some air!” 

When I step out of the building a few minutes later, I see Simon standing at the corner, holding the white plastic bag emblazoned with “The Little Thai” in one hand and— a bouquet of flowers in the other hand. A dozen roses. He holds them out to me, leaning in to place a kiss on my cheek as he does. 

Fleetingly, I recall a similar evening getting takeaway with Simon from last year, and how he would pull away from the slightest touch. How he would interpret any sideways glance from a passing stranger as an assessment of his worth, and how I would interpret his reactions as an indication that those passing strangers meant more to him than I did.

I pull myself back into this moment and turn my face to meet his lips with my own. I relish how he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t close his mouth and swallow and look away, but instead meets my gaze head on and reaches up to touch my cheek. 

“Cold,” he murmurs. 

“Vampire,” I say sardonically. 

He grins. “Wicked.” 

“Yeah, well, come along, dragon boy. We’ve got some stars to see.”   
  


**SIMON**

I convinced Baz to let me drive, so he’s been watching me from the passenger seat and trying not to look nervous. I’ve gotten pretty good since America, but it’s true that I haven’t really ever driven in the city at night. Anyway, first time for everything. 

I know Baz is trying to show that he has faith in me, so he’s not saying anything, not even anything encouraging. I finally told him a few weeks ago that when he says “You’re doing excellently, Snow,” every time I properly use my turn signal, it starts to feel a bit patronizing.

I wouldn’t admit it, but I actually was a bit nervous driving until we actually got out of the city. But now, we’re out into the country and there are hardly any other cars out. It must not have rained out here, because the pavement is dry. 

I started driving generally in the direction toward Hampshire, just because that’s a drive I’ve taken before and I know roughly where to go. I’ll look for a place to pull over soon.

The sky has been black for hours, but only now that we’ve put enough kilometers between us and the city does it actually feel _dark_ . I haven’t been in this much _dark_ since we went to Hampshire for Christmas this year— and before that, not since America. There’s something comforting about it, like you become invisible because no one can see you. Minus the stars, of course. It’s clear now, so the stars are out in full force.

I’ve gotten a bit better about that, anyway. People seeing me. Being _seen_. Being touched, too, actually. It’s still hard, sometimes, but it doesn’t feel as hopeless. Like even when it’s hard, I know I can work through it and then at the end it will turn out okay. Most days.

Tonight feels special, though. I’ve been stressing about this evening even before I brought it up to Baz, but now that it’s here, I feel more confident than I have in a while.

I was nervous because it felt like some definite marker of us as a couple. Like, yes, we can do normal things like go on dates, we are in a relationship and we are happy, we are not about to break up at any second, we love each other. 

We do. Love each other. It still feels weird sometimes, but it’s true. 

I mean, I’ve known I’ve loved Baz for ages now, but I finally managed to actually say the words after we got back from America and dealt with all the mess at Watford. At the time, it felt like something that I should just say to get everything off my chest before we called it off. Before I figured out how to live the rest of my life apart from the inimitable force that is Baz. 

Instead, it was like those three words unlocked something and opened up a whole new world. I’ll never forget the look in Baz’s eyes— he stared at me for a whole minute without saying anything, I swear, just looked at me with those stormy gray eyes. And then he blinked a bunch and squinted and said: “You absolute numpty. Simon, we _love_ each other. I’ve been in love with you for years. I’m not going anywhere.”

Warmth spread all over my body like butter melting on a scone.

Those words didn’t fix everything. I had a lot to figure out about myself and my role in the World of Mages— still do, as a matter of fact. But this thing that had previously been so shaky, like a boat jumping in the waves and making me seasick, began to right itself. And now we’re still learning how to row, but at least we don’t constantly feel like we’re about to capsize any second. So, the nausea has gone down. 

Right now, I feel steady enough that when Baz reaches his hand out and squeezes my knee, the seizing feeling in my stomach lasts only a second before I register that yes, this feels good, and I love this man. I chance a quick look over at him, smiling, but dutifully flick my eyes back to the road before he breaks his no-comment resolution. 

“Snow,” he starts. We’ve been driving for a while without either of us saying anything, but it hasn’t been awkward. It’s just been nice. “Where exactly are you planning on taking me?” 

And though I didn’t have a clue two seconds earlier, I suddenly recognize where we are. I turn off the main road.

“Two years ago,” I say. “Well, nearly two years, anyway. We were here. Well, pretty close to here. Not exactly here, I guess—” 

“—Simon,” Baz cuts in, and my thirteen-year-old self would hate me for saying this, but sometimes he really does know when to shut me up. I’m grateful. He looks outside. “Simon, are you talking about the _forest fire_ incident?” 

I frown. “You didn’t actually start a forest fire, Baz. Tried to. But you put it out.” 

He’s smirking at me now, and even though I’m flustered and blushing and trying to get my words out and not screw this up, a part of me registers how incredible it is that we’re sitting in the same car right now, joking about that moment. This thing that could have been so terrible, that _was_ so terrible, that changed everything. 

Now somehow when we’re pushed back into the memory, we can stand on this side of it, together. Laugh at our own self-destructive tendencies and how we keep trying to overcome them. Laugh at the winding path that keeps shoving us together, despite it all.

“So,” he says, more gently now. “The forest fire incident? When you did the most ridiculous, nonsensical thing imaginable and snogged my face off?” 

“Yeah,” I say loudly. “That one.” I put the car in park and turn to face him.

He doesn’t respond for a minute, but then he leans in and kisses me. And just like I’ve been working on: I breathe in, I don’t tense up and pull away, I just soak it in. It’s gentle— much more gentle than that first kiss three years ago. That kiss felt like being on fire and then jumping headfirst into a cool lake. This one feels like a cool breeze on a warm day. Easier, more comfortable.

All too soon, he pulls away, but his hand is still knotted in my curls, and he’s rubbing soft circles on my temple with his thumb. 

“Simon, you are the most magnificent being I have ever known,” he whispers. 

My breath catches in my throat. I fight down my instinct to speak over him, to laugh it all off as a big joke. 

“And speaking of _being_ ,” he continues, raising both eyebrows and reaching to poke my tail lightly where it’s still tucked into my trousers. “Do you want to let yourself free?” 

“Yeah,” I say gratefully. “Want to sit in the boot?” 

“Simon, this is a Jaguar, not Shepard’s ridiculously large truck.”

“I know, but still. There will be more room. And we can sit closer together.”

He considers it for a moment, then nods. “Very well, you’re right. I’ll bring the food around to the back.” 

I step outside of the car and relish the feel of the cool air on my face. _It was cool that night, two years ago, too_. I untuck my tail from my trousers and adjust my sweatshirt, a ratty old one that I leave at Baz’s place. It’s already got some holes in it for my wings. 

Then, I concentrate hard for a few seconds, and then I feel my wings erupt behind me. The relief is instantaneous— like massaging out your muscles after a marathon.

It was the week before my appointment with Dr. Wellebelove when it finally clicked in my head. I was thinking about Margaret, her scraggly gray hair, her flashing eyes, gaudy rings cluttering her fingers. It was hard to imagine that she was really a mountain-sized dragon. As I was picturing her transformation into a batty old woman. I thought about my own wings popping away. A rush of heat ran up my spine as I felt my wings do just that. They weren’t just _invisible_ , they really were _gone_. And ever since then, I’ve been able to control them. (I can do the same with my tail, but I don’t usually bother.)

I swing my arms up over my head to extend the stretch, rolling my shoulders and neck out too. The bit of anticipation that was clustered in the pit of my stomach at the beginning of the day today, the anxiety I felt about somehow not passing this test, about somehow having all of my worst fears about our relationship, which had grown bitter and hard as frozen rocks over those sullen months last year before we went to America, and which I’ve spent the last few months trying to thaw— it’s easing slightly. There’s a bit of warmth there, as well— lingering from Baz’s touch and his kiss and his affirmation of love. 

He _loves_ me, I remind myself. He _wants_ to be with me. I tell myself this a few times, and I hear my therapist’s voice in my head too— it’s okay to feel good about myself, all on my own. 

I spent so many years avoiding that thinking, avoiding thinking at all. Convinced my life was simply following arrows that other people laid out for me, through a war and into a murky, uncertain future.

But now the war’s over, and it wasn’t even the one I thought I was fighting. I have something real. And while it sure as hell isn’t normal, it’s steady. It’s good— so good. I don’t want to fuck it up. And lately I’ve started to believe that it’s possible I won’t. 

I turn to walk back toward Baz, who’s spreading some fancy blanket across the boot. Always cold and usually prepared, that’s my boyfriend. He smiles when he sees me approach. 

“The blanket will elevate our position a bit so it’s not quite as uncomfortable. Do you think this will be alright?” 

“Yeah Baz, it’s grand.” 

He finally settles in the boot, sitting up straight as a rod like he always does. I plop down next to him, and even though my wings are a bit constricted by the top of the boot behind us, it’s still pretty nice. I snuggle a bit closer to him and place a kiss on his cheek, pausing to nuzzle my nose against it. Baz lets out a contented sigh, and my heart warms even more to hear it.

**BAZ**

Simon looks beautiful with his wings. I’ve always thought so, even though I’ve also sometimes thought they were confusing and stubborn and an obstruction to a good night’s sleep. He manages them so well now, and watching him stretch them out is like watching a chained animal run free. 

Now, I feel him cuddle up next to me and fit his chin neatly on my shoulder. He fits against me perfectly.

 _We match_. 

“I’ve got the food, love,” I say after a few moments lingering in the heaven that is being close to Simon, and Simon wanting to be close to me. I reach behind me to grab the plastic bag and remove the containers, napkins, and cutlery. 

“Mmmm.” Simon’s eyes wiggle up in delight as he opens his container. Our food’s lost its steam after our drive, so I cast a quick **_“Some like it hot.”_ **

It’s late now, far past when we would have finished dinner, so I’m sure Simon is starving. Sure enough, he starts to dig into his meal with relish. The speed at which he is shoveling rice noodles into his mouth is incredible. A scallion falls out of his mouth and onto the front of his sweatshirt. It would be mildly disgusting, really, if I wasn’t so in love with him. 

I open up my box as well and breathe in the spicy food. Someday I’ll be so used to my newfound control over my fangs that I won’t even notice it anymore, but for now, I still spend a few seconds at the beginning of every meal shocked at my restraint. Amazed at my own power to simply exist in my body and not be at war with it. 

My time in Vegas was agonizing for many reasons, but for this, I cannot help but be grateful. For in fact, my fangs do stay precisely where I want them to as I begin chewing. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as we both eat, but then it always is. Mealtime with Simon is a sacred affair— you’d think he was the vampire, spiritually strengthened by the lifeblood of his scones or his roast pork. Anyway, the silence still feels comfortable, and Simon’s still pressed up against me, and I’m thinking about how it might be possible that this evening is actually going well.

We have come a long way since last year, I know we have. And Crowley knows I’ve come even further from all those years of self-loathing adoration for my ridiculous roommate. 

The adoration has not changed. Developed, matured a bit. The requited part— that’s newer, and a very welcome change. But I know the self-loathing part is also beginning to shift a bit. At least, I’m working on it. Simon knows.

I look over at him again, and he smiles at me, mouth full of noodles.

For most of my life, Simon has been a constant presence, whirring around like one of those bloody American storms that Shepard likes to chase. It’s an indescribable comfort to know that he’ll be with me while we keep working to build our lives back up again, together. 

  
  


**SIMON**

We finish eating mostly in silence. Baz put away his food before me, and now he’s lightly stroking my thigh while I clear out my last few bites. 

The interior light is on in the car, so we’re both lit up with this soft shadowy yellow glow, but everything else around us is pitch black, save for the stars. I still try not to stare at him when he’s eating— I’m used to not looking, and Baz is used to being self-conscious. You don’t unlearn years of anxieties that quickly. 

But now I can see a faint glow of pride at the beginning of every meal when he manages to keep his fangs in place. Even all those years at Watford, I rarely saw that look on him: not with his multitude of successes in the classroom, not on the pitch, not even in making me look like a tit in front of everyone. Self-satisfied, sure. Cool airs of arrogance, often. But almost never this look of genuine pride.

I think it’s making him feel differently about his fangs when they’re being put to proper use, too. Like they’re actual tools with a purpose, and not just grotesque obstructions that mark, as if with a neon sign, his struggles and alienations. (Not that I’ve ever thought of them like that. Thought they were _cool_ , and still do.) 

Baz is still lightly running his fingers in circles on my thigh when I finish my last bite. He’s looking up at the sky, and I switch off the light in the car so I can see the stars reflected more clearly in his gray eyes. 

He turns to me now and raises an eyebrow. “I trust your dinner was satisfactory, even at this late hour?” 

“Dinner was tops, but the company was even better,” I say, trying to wink and earning myself a groan and an eye roll in the process. 

I stand up, stretching my wings out again from being pressed up against the car. Baz tilts his head when I lean over in front of him, placing my elbows on his thighs. 

“When I see the sky like this,” I say, “I think of that one time. In our room at Watford.” 

Baz looks at me. “When you got me drunk on power?” 

I laugh dryly. “Yeah, a bit.” I lean forward and rest my forehead against Baz’s, breathing in his cedar and bergamot. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” I say softly. 

There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to say those words out loud without at least some chance of going supernova. My magic was stupid and unpredictable. But I sometimes miss being able to have that effect on Baz, to match his brilliance with my chaos. I suppose we’re both working on more controlled chaos these days.

As if he could read my mind, Baz presses a kiss to my cheek and says, “Being with you makes me feel drunk even still. Sometimes with power, sometimes with lust, sometimes with the sheer inanity of a life with you.” 

This time it’s my turn to roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that springs on my face. “You’re dating a Normal now. We’ve left unexpected magical drunkenness behind.” 

“Oh yes, you’re terribly normal,” Baz says, looking down pointedly at where my tail is currently wrapped around his ankle. 

“Speaking of which—” I start, and I stretch my neck back to look up at the stars again. “I was thinking about going for a flight.” My wings beat a few times in anticipation. 

“Right now? Sure, I can wait here.” 

“No, I mean—” I take a deep breath. “Do you want to come? With me?” 

I don’t know why I’m blurting this out right now, but it’s something I’ve wanted for a while. I want to chase that feeling of freedom from those few times in America when I was soaring out under the blue sky. Now that I can actually control my wings, the urge to go flying is an ever-present itch that I want to keep scratching. And I need to share it with Baz. 

There’s a bit of a pause after my question, so I keep going, “I mean, the only time I’ve taken you has been when we were fleeing certain death in America, and I barely even remember it much because we were both practically about to pass the fuck out, and I thought it would be— I mean, just a quick one— it might be cold— but just for a few minutes—” 

“Love,” Baz interrupts. “Let’s go.” 

It takes a little bit to figure out the right positioning for it— we settle on my arms wrapped tightly around Baz’s waist, and his (very strong vampire) arms around my neck. My wings beat erratically a few times while we’re still on the ground, and I can’t help but remember the violent scene below us the last time I clung to Baz’s waist and flew away. But Baz’s cool touch is a comfort, and his arms are solid and steady around me. 

We take flight.

I hear a gasp from Baz as we jolt upward, and then I try to steady our pace a little more. The dark sky is wide open above us, and it’s like more and more clusters of glittering stars unfold everywhere I look. I don’t know shit about the constellations, but I know if I asked Baz, he could tell me all about them. 

For now, I’m content to just look— at the stars, and at Baz. Baz’s face is glowing in the starlight; he looks as bright as I’ve ever seen him. His long hair is flowing back in the wind, but when I dip down a bit, some of the strands fly into his face. I push them away with the tip of my nose, and I press a kiss to his lips. They’re soft and eager against my own. Mid-flight snogging is a bit limited in scope, but I’m hoping we can expand on this a bit once we land.

We’re cruising now, and the car is just a tiny dot below us. “Are you cold?” I ask Baz. If our faces weren’t so close, I would have to shout over the beating of my wings and the wind. 

“No, you’re still a radiator,” he says, and we fly for a few more minutes like this. Baz is staring at me, and I don’t look away. His face is still so close to mine.

“You’re so—” Baz starts to say, and then his voice gets quiet.

I might be able to hear him if I had his vampire hearing, but as it is, I squint a little and ask, “Huh?”

He’s squirming a bit now, and looking away, up at the sky. The hem of his jersey is flapping wildly. (I can’t believe he actually put it on. Although I certainly _can_ believe how good he still looks in it..)

“You’re so beautiful,” Baz says simply, looking up at my face again, gray eyes searching mine. I blink. His face is so soft, like I’ve almost never seen it. I want to protest, to sidestep with a joke, but his gaze holds me, and I feel something hard inside me start to crumble.

“I love you, Baz,” I say, squeezing his waist even more tightly.

He smiles. “I love you too.” 

There are a lot of ways I like to look at Baz, but this one— suspended in the air, a genuine smile on his face, his soft hair blowing in the late night breeze— has got to be one of my favorites. 

Suddenly I feel so present in this moment, Baz’s arms grounding me, every every inch of our contact burning, the wind whip against my face. But at the same time, I’m struck by the thought of all the million other ways I’ll get to see him.

More dates, maybe even some that go as planned. More nights in, Baz stretched out on the sofa with his head in my lap. More drives, more flights, more _us._ Together. I feel a rush of excitement at the idea of all that’s waiting for us— not murky, gray, terrifying anymore, but steady, open, light. 

With that, I press one more kiss to Baz’s lips, and I fly us slowly back down to earth, toward our shared future.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr!](https://seducing-a-vampire.tumblr.com/)


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